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My mom died suddenly on Sunday. I should probably take her off this mailing list.
That's her in the photo above. A long time ago, before I was born.
My mother had been planning for her death, or rather what should happen after her death, for many years. She wrote her own obituary when she only had one grandchild. Yesterday I updated it with the names of the other two.
Her death-related planning was morbid and weird. But it was also her “gift” to me and my brother. Probably because when her mother/my grandmother died, it took my mom more than a year to settle the estate, and she wanted to spare us that kind of misery/work. Which means now there isn’t much for me to do, other than wonder what the fuck I’m supposed to do. Like, logistically. And emotionally.
Her obituary focuses mostly on her career (she was an energy economist). Job titles and awards and publications. Things that mattered to her, but not to me. Which is why I’m using this week’s email to share some other things about her. Not exactly an alternobituary. Just a few memories that make me laugh or smile.
I’ve already written about how she drove me to school in her robe so I’d never ask her to do that again. And how she never let me live down a stupid purchase. And how we played a prank on the guy who made my glasses.
My mother had a PhD in economics, but read absolute trash in her free time. I’m convinced it was all those Robert Ludlum novels that made her take a job at the CIA. She took her job so seriously she once came home with her briefcase handcuffed to her wrist. If her work was that top-secret, the papers wouldn't have left the CIA campus, and my brother and I wouldn't have known who her employer was (covert people's families think they work for the State Department). But I still wish we had taken a photo of her shackled to that briefcase.
When I was a tween, she took me to Hershey, PA for the full chocolate experience. The restaurant at the Hershey Inn was so fancy there was a waiter-type person whose only job was to place butter on your bread plate. He had a little fork and a bucket of butter pieces. We called him the Butterpricker and giggled about it all weekend.
Her favorite curse word was a phrase: “Shit to bed.” Not shit THE bed, but shit TO bed. I have no idea what it meant. But when she said it, you knew she was pissed off. Sometimes when we knew she was angry, we’d shout it for her, and she'd just nod her head in agreement.
Whenever one of us complimented her on her cooking (“hey this is really good!”) she’d answer, “Damn right.” Which was probably her way of telling us to fuck off because of the Turkey Balls Incident.
To explain: She tried to get creative with Thanksgiving turkey leftovers. Because wasting food is a cardinal, mortal, and venial sin. One year she proudly served up what I guess were turkey meatballs, but she called them “turkey balls.” My dad, my brother, and I were in hysterics. There were jokes for days. She never made them again, but 30 years later “turkey balls” is still a running joke.
She was her happiest and best self at work. Outside of work, it was incredibly hard to impress her. Until I took her to Cirque du Soleil a few years ago. She loved it. It was the happiest I’d seen her in a long time.
Old clothes
Last week I asked you about the oldest items in your closet. A couple fun responses:
“The oldest items that I have in my wardrobe that I still routinely wear are from the early to mid 1960s and used to belong to my mother. I have all these little tailor-made jackets that she wore and are still in pretty great shape. They of course came with matching dresses or skirts, but unfortunately I can't fit any of those because I am the tall and chunky one in my family.”
“The oldest item in my closet is a heavy red pullover sweater that I received when I was in 6th grade. It was actually too big for me at that time, but I wore it anyway... I still wear it. When I first received it, I was going through a corduroy pants phase, and I used to wear the sweater with a red or white turtleneck, red corduroy pants, red socks and white Keds shoes. When I wear it now, as an adult, I usually pair it with a red or white turtleneck and jeans. I even wore it during my pregnancy and several people commented on it, how nice it fit over my belly... Somehow I have managed to not snag it on anything or get any holes in it.”
Good stuff
For next week
I haven’t cried yet. Maybe I’m saving it for the funeral. And I know there is no standard grieving process. That it’s different for everyone, and those five so-called stages are nonlinear bullshit. But I’m hoping readers who have lost parents will share a little bit about their experiences – especially the stuff that surprised you. Is there anything huge I need to know or brace myself for? Or maybe you found a good coping mechanism that might help me/other readers in the future? As always, you can reply directly to this email and anything I share will be anonymous.
Pass it on
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